


Finger

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, Fingerfucking, M/M, Multi, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So if he's curled around Teyla like that, making her looking even smaller than normal against his weird, elongated lankiness, then there's a reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finger

**Author's Note:**

> Note very creative title!

So, you know what I want to read? OT4, which is not unusual because _wow pretty people_ , but right now I've got this huge craving for John to pull Teyla back against him and they're probably fully clothed and hell, just... watching something. I dunno. But they're standing and John's got his hands linked together around her stomach and it's casual and friendly and yes, okay, maybe a little too close for John's normal, but it's team and he's okay with touching team, so no one pays attention.

Except for said team. Because John might be easier when they touch him, might reach out for them more often, but that doesn't mean he's turned into a cuddler. So if he's curled around Teyla like that, making her looking even smaller than normal against his weird, elongated lankiness, then there's a reason.

A reason that becomes pretty clear John's fingers start to move, so carefully that only close attention will show the tendons on the back of his hands, the muscles in his arms, tightening and releasing in evidence. But they are, and Teyla's pants go down and if Ronon and Rodney are angled oddly, half blocking Teyla from everybody else while still keeping an eye on her, well, that's just the kind of thing Team does and nobody questions it.

Teyla's pants don't gap obviously, but they are clearly open -- or it would be clear if Ronon wasn't hovering at just the right angle -- and John's hands look strange against the golden stretch of Teyla's belly, glimpsed between fingers that are pale enough to be white except for the dark hairs only thin around his knuckles. Those hands slide down, slow and careful, disappearing between the folds of plain blue military issue pants, the ones that don't fit her like second skin, the ones her team prefers because then _they_ aren't distracted into staring at her, drooling like the men they are.

She doesn't gasp -- she's too composed for that -- but she does stiffen just a little, chin up in unconscious imitation of Rodney, defiance a shield graced with his own personal standard of numbers twisted into complex equations.

"This okay?" John asks, the polite diffidence completely at odds with the way his fingers work deeper, purposeful, until all three of them are leaning closer. Rodney licks his lips, closing his eyes to ward off the sight; he loves to go down on her, minutes dragged out impossibly long as he makes her shatter and shiver and break against his tongue. "Teyla?"

"I am well," she says and if it's a little bit strangled, well, there's only the three of them to hear.

John nods, resting his cheek on her head as he lets his left hand rest solid and _male_ , all knobby knuckles and blunt, no-nail fingers, gentle against the flutter of her stomach. His other hand is busy, the muscles along his forearm cording and releasing and that, too, makes Rodney moan because there is nothing sexier than watching Sheppard work. It doesn't matter if it's tools or planes or guns or even just the surprisingly neat print he sometimes gifts to his team, notes to show what he cannot say. All of it turns into sex in Rodney's mind -- in Ronon's, in Teyla's, as they breathlessly agree whenever Rodney brings it up. It's all just _sex_.

Teyla's breathing roughly now, nostrils flaring as she tries to stay composed. She widens her legs millimeter by milliliter, desperate for balance, trying to stay upright.

Rodney leans close enough that his shoulder brushes John's, warm skin whispering John's every movement before Teyla feels it, reaching out with his other arm to tuck a stray bit of hair behind Teyla's ear. "Hey," he says. "It's okay."

Immediately, gratifyingly, Teyla melts back with a soft, low moan that has all her men rumbling in reverberating enjoyment. Her weight is centered on John's hips, her own starting to rock in tiny circles. John's hand is deeper now, only the wrist visible, tendons flicking one, two, three, one, two, three.

"Two," Ronon rumbles and John laughs, as breathless as Teyla, because of course Ronon knows exactly where and how John's touching her. Rodney knows, too.

Obliging, John slides a second finger inside of her, thumb rubbing circles over her clit. "I wanted to do this for hours," he rumbles against her ear, breath making the smaller hairs at her temple, already frizzy from sweat, move and bow. "Ever since we got here. I wanted to see if you were still hot from this morning, still wet from last night. And you were, Jesus, Teyla you feel so _good."_

She swallows, nodding with a quick jerk to hide the way she whines -- always, when she's close, high and breathy and scarily childlike as she loses control -- and bites her lip. Her teeth are crooked and white. "You like your toys."

"I like you," he fires back, twisting his wrist abruptly so that Ronon and Rodney both swallow back moans because they _know_ the angle's painful and perfect, because John's got three fingers curled exactly right, rubbing where Teyla is softest, while the heel of his hand grinds hard and rough, wetness spilling down the sides as Teyla whines again, and a third time before throwing her head back so hard it _clacks_ against John's collarbone, before she goes completely boneless, face slack and beautiful in pleasure.

After that, it's quiet.

Eventually, John withdraws his hand, licking fingers and palm clean while Teyla blushes but does not move, puddled against him and trusting to the arm he still has snug around her waist to prevent her from falling. Beside her, Ronon and Rodney stare whatever it is they're supposed to be watching with focused attention.

"When we return," she murmurs, pleasure-drunk enough that she slurs, "I believe I will play with _my_ toys, hm?"

John nods and smiles, easy and comfortable now that he's gotten his way. "Sure, Teyla. Anything you want."

"Anything?"

Ronon exchanges a look with Rodney. _They_ know that arch tone of voice, but John is lost in smug satisfaction, knowing he's completely undone his partner. "Sure," he says again. "Whatever you want."

"I want to watch Rodney fuck you," she whispers, sending shivers down all of their spines, "until you come, but not before he does. That he will save for Ronon, in that circular position the two of them like so much, while I use Ronon's _very_ thoughtful gift on you."

For a second, only Teyla breathes.

"You -- " Rodney coughs. "You can have him first, if you want," he offers, magnanimous. Beside him, John _vibrates_ with a groan he will not voice.

Shaking her head, Teyla says, "No. I wish to watch your technique first. You always break him in the most entertaining of ways." She smiles, the emphasis on 'break' meaning anything but, while around her three men try to remember just how to make their knees function.

"Wanna leave early?" Ronon asks.


End file.
